


What My Lady Needs

by iyrie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Creepy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, intentionally horrifying and not at all romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23387074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iyrie/pseuds/iyrie
Summary: Blackwall tells Lavellan that if she tells him to stop, he will.She tells him to stop. He doesn't.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall/Female Lavellan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	What My Lady Needs

Lavellan’s hair curls in a complex bun at the nape of her neck. She redoes the plaits every morning. Blackwall has watched in camp while half-asleep. She braids it so delicately, tucking it away as if not to offend anyone. She’s always tight as a bowstring, except in those morning dazes where she lets down her guard and lets down her hair.  
  
When wandering through Skyhold his eyes scour the castle for signs of her, even when he doesn’t ask them to. Today her silhouette swelters behind the tavern’s window panes. Blackwall approaches her from behind. This place reeks worse than conscription ale.  
  
Blackwall’s glad to see her tankard is untouched. He claps a hand on her back, which is surprisingly rigid. She starts, reels round to face him, exhales when she sees it’s only Blackwall. His hand slips from her silver armor. “Surprised to see you here, my lady, thought you’d know better ways to relax than over this pigswill.”  
  
“I don’t know better,” she mumbles. Lavellan blinks hard, clearly embarrassed. Discomfort radiates from her like heat – must be this tavern.  
  
He rescues her from herself. “I have some spiced wine I’ve been meaning to get rid of. Let’s get you somewhere nicer.”  
  
Turns out that she doesn’t need wine to loosen her tongue.  
  
He leads her to his loft, ushers her up the stairs like a true gentleman, invites her to sit on the bed next to him, since there isn’t really anywhere else. Their knees touch.  
  
“What’s got you so miserable?” he asks, and Lavellan hesitates, smoothing down her sash. She sits like she’s scared to take up space. Now who’s brooding? “Haven’t seen you there before, and I know what drives people to it.”  
  
It takes another moment of silence for Lavellan to talk. “I’m scared,” she says quietly.  
  
“Of what, my lady? Do I need to hurt someone for you?”  
  
Sometimes he thinks of atoning like this. Hunting down those who hurt her and disposing of them. He imagines her finding him smeared in their blood, and telling her his sins, and fucking her by the corpses as she calls him a monster and her hair dips into blood.  
  
“I said something wrong. – It doesn’t matter.” She takes a deep breath, and Blackwall waits. “I thought Vivienne would want me to support mages, so I told her I did. And she looked at me like I’d set a Chantry on fire.”  
  
“You should be more concerned about her staff at your back than her words to your face.”  
  
“I’m worried about both.” Lavellan casts her eyes around as if watched, and though they’re alone, her voice drops. “I think, all the time, about – doing things wrong. I’m scared that Iron Bull will find some better contract, because he doesn’t want to work for someone he hates. Or... or Dorian will decide he’d rather work with his father than with me. Or Solas will wander right back into the Fade. And I’ll have let them all down by doing everything wrong.”  
  
She speaks evenly, just as controlled as usual. Blackwall watches her body. He sees her shoulders lose their brittle posture and slump languidly down. She’s toying with her sash. And he’s sitting on his bed, so close he can hear the rise and fall of her breath, her thigh resting against his. Blackwall inhales. She smells of wood and iron and underneath that, something soft and springlike. He swallows, throat thick at the warmth seeping through her breeches.  
  
“You fret too much about other’s opinions. I’d recommend spending years alone without talking to anyone – tends to make you a lot more self-sufficient. The best cure.”  
  
Lavellan has that look on her face that she always does whenever someone disapproves. Her eyes get wide like a halla he hunted once, and her jaw clenches like she’s trying to hold back tears. “Sorry. I’ll try to worry less.” Another heavy pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to unload all of this on you. So few people ask.”  
  
The words slip out of his mouth and into the perfect place. “What you need is to relax. My lady, you should let down your hair.”

She’s so exquisitely obedient. She loosens the bun, which dissolves into a complex maze of braids. Blackwall helps her, though his hands seem too big and clumsy, and she starts the moment he first touches her before turning her head so he’ll have an easier angle. He works diligently at her hair, marvelling at the soft gauziness as it falls over his fingers in loose curls. Occasionally, as she undoes her hair with fingers far more dextrous than his, their palms brush each other. Taking a deep breath, he detects the scents of pine wood and sweat.  
  
She’s transformed. Lavellan doesn’t look so tense when her hair sprawls lazily down her back and shoulders. She’s half-smiling at him. Even her dark eyes seem softer. Blackwall drags his hands again through the wavy mass. It’s as if all the fear’s been combed out of her. Some curls sit against her gleaming mail, and that doesn’t fit with the fantasy.  
  
“I can help you out of your armor, too.” It’s almost too much to hope, but she doesn’t say no. Blackwall chuckles gruffly at her silence. “Come on, let me, it looks like you’ve been wearing it all week.”  
  
Lavellan freezes back up the moment he starts untying the sash.  
  
“It’s alright, my lady.” Blackwall lays a reassuring hand on the small of her back, and keeps working with the other. The sash comes away and drapes red over the side of his bed. “Girl like you must’ve been undressed before.” She shakes her head. His brow furrows. “Then... You can’t be comfortable under all that metal. Stay still,” he warns, though it’s unnecessary, because Lavellan’s not moved except from the flaring of her chest. He unties the thread at her breast and feels her breath flutter under his fingers. While extracting the lace with one hand, he doesn’t realize it for a moment, but he’s cupping her breast with the other, grazing his thumb along the underside. His palms sweat.  
  
She’s breathing faster now, eyes fixated on his.  
  
Blackwall’s mind fogs up. To keep him focused, he withdraws from her chest, feeling his face burn. Thinking of Blight and cold things, he slides off Lavellan’s gloves, smooths them out, and lays them next to her on the bed.  
  
When he reaches up to pull her scale armor over her head, Lavellan raises her arms to let him. Blackwall’s breath stutters in his throat. Underneath, she’s wearing only a loose brown tunic, and she’s shivering, but when he lays his hand again on her breast, it’s burning hot.  
  
Lavellan murmurs, “Don’t...”  
  
Oh, he understands virgins, or what he’s heard of them. And Lavellan is a textbook virgin, dewy eyed, hair cloaking her like in a painting of Andraste. They want to be loved and they don’t want to be hurt. They want to protect their senses of propriety by pretending they don’t want sex.  
  
“I won’t hurt you,” he promises. He kneels, and unlaces her boots. It’s difficult – his hands fumble, and her legs tremble at his touch. He slides one boot off, then the other – Lavellan pulls her soles back against the side of the bed.  
  
“Blackwall,” her tone more urgent, but still shaky. He can hear pleasure in the high-pitched, breathy notes. “You don’t need to do this. Please.” And that’s what makes the decision for him.  
  
Such modesty! Does she not think she’s worth this? She is, she’s worth every tremble her body’s reacting to his touch with. She’s so much better than him it makes his bones ache. Blackwall will never be so good but at least he can serve her. He does need to do this, and she’ll understand why when it’s done. He shifts, his cock rubs against his leg, and his eyes close in frustration. It’s growing harder to ignore its insistence.  
  
“I’d like to do this.” His mouth is dry and hot. He hooks his fingers into her breeches and pulls them down. Lavellan squirms, and attempts to draw back, but Blackwall pulls her forward so that her smalls hang over the edge of the bed. A breath heavy in his throat, he pulls those down, too, below her knees, close enough that her legs are trapped together.  
  
A stuttering exhale. A pressing silence. Lavellan smells of sweat. Her thighs are clamped together tight enough to suffocate a man; Blackwall slips his fingers in and parts them.

With her legs pried apart, Blackwall’s fingers trace Lavellan’s thighs, up to where they join. A finger skims over her pussy, mapping the boundary where skin becomes humid flesh. The tip runs inside her folds. They’re crinkled like half-dried rose petals. He’s fucked girls before; knows they’re meant to be wet. He supposes he has to prove to her that she wants him.  
  
“Blackwall.“ It’s almost a sob. Her hands curl into fists over her chest. “Please, I don’t - ”  
  
He presses his mouth to her entrance and tastes a thin film of bitter dampness. She’s silent again, and he can feel the muscles of her thighs taut by his ears. His moustache bristles against her smooth mound. A gasp above Blackwall makes him grin into her. He wonders if Lavellan’s ever imagined this. The idea’s been festering in him since the morning he first saw her hair loose.  
  
His tongue plunges through her folds. The desperation in her ambient pulse matches the feeling in his cock. Whenever he changes angle, a heated friction scalds his length where fabric brushes it. It’s unbearable.  
  
With one hand, Blackwall frees his cock from his stale breeches, while the other firmly grips her leg. When he licks upwards, to tease her clitoris out of hiding, Lavellan lets out a strangled cry. He withdraws, momentarily, to admire his work, and ease his own pressure. He wipes off a drop of precum and caresses the head. It takes the edge off enough to focus.  
  
Her eyes are glazed, fixed on a hay bale on the room’s far side. Coils of hair trickle down her bare arms. Her chest heaves with short, shallow breaths. The silence makes the air thick with electricity. Lavellan’s eyes drop down to him, register that he’s stopped, and she whispers: “I’d like to leave now, Blackwall, I - ”  
  
A long, calculated stroke of his tongue knocks the sentence out of her mouth. She scrabbles for it, but Blackwall intensifies his efforts, and her words scatter, a meaningless mess of ‘please’s, and ‘don’t’s. She’s finally starting to moisten under him. His own saliva doesn’t taste as muskily sweet as what he tastes now, and her entrance runs slick with the intoxicating mixture. Under his hand, her leg has stilled. He strokes the underside of his cock. It’s as sensitive as she must be feeling now, and almost painful with the sheer need to be inside her.  
  
“Creators, no,” Lavellan breathes.  
  
She looks so perfect. So ready. Spread open poised to be ruined. That tense little body taunts him. How long has she wanted release? She deserves to be fucked into the blissful relaxation she must crave. Blackwall isn’t a good man but he can give a good woman what she deserves.  
  
When he rises up and shoves her back against the bed, his elbows pin her shoulders, her hair spills onto the furs, and his hands tangle into it. Underneath him, her pulse flows through his chest.  
  
“If you want me to stop, my lady – just say the word.”  
  
He’s said this before in his fantasies. He imagines, like in the stories he imagines Grey Wardens tell, she’d be too overwhelmed to speak but she’d tell him, in the rocking of her hips and the blush on her cheeks, that she doesn’t want him to stop, and she is simply playing the part of the silent maiden about to be ravished. Perhaps she’d say it reluctantly, to keep up appearances, but Blackwall’d see past that. Of course, he’d be courteous, he’d do it gently, and he’d hear her consent in her tender moans.  
  
In other fantasies, when loneliness keens like a wolf in his chest, Lavellan doesn’t want him. She’d ask him to stop and he would, but he’d bide his time. Blackwall’d find her bathing naked outside camp and he’d take her then, hand over her pretty little mouth (she’d bite it and he’d let her), rough and hard until she’d have no choice but to loosen and love it. He’d push her against the lake’s mossy rocks and kiss the grazes on her bare stomach. Even then she’d hate him afterwards. His punishment.  
  
He’s touched himself thinking of Lavellan hating him. She’d hate him so intensely she’d burn with it. She’d spit curses at him. She’d let everyone know how awful he is. And he’d wallow in being a monster, savor the daggers in his companion’s eyes, revel in the depravity of being as bad as he always knew he was.  
  
Lavellan says, more grateful than she’s ever sounded, “Stop.”

Disappointment hits him between the ribs.  
  
“Of course, my lady,” and he lets go of her, straightening up. It’s disorienting to be knocked off course like this. His blood seethes at him for stopping, at her for making him stop. Trying to calm himself, Blackwall paces by the room’s exit. Why does she not want him? He watches Lavellan shakily stand to pull up her smallclothes. She looks feverishly tired, and her eyes fix on the way out just behind Blackwall. He sees her swallow back control as she sits back down, head in her hands; then he can’t bear to look at her any longer.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Lavellan calls to him. Blackwall leans on the wall, his forehead against his arm against the wood. “I just wanted to talk to someone. Did I – did I say something wrong? Are you angry?”  
  
He breathes in the wood and the stench of hay. It does nothing to dampen the desire. “Always knew you were too good for me.” Spitting out the bitter words is great satisfaction. His cock burns with equal want and self-reproach, even more inconvenient now that he’s standing, and his coat brushes against it.  
  
Lavellan’s voice quivers. “I don’t understand.” Neither does Blackwall. He’s lost and hard and guilty. It’s hard to make up such a weighted-down mind.  
  
He does, though. “You need to understand,” he says darkly, shrugging the coat off his shoulders. “I can’t let you keep thinking of me as a decent man.” He pulls off his boots. When he next glances to Lavellan, she’s frantically lacing up one of her own. Before she can even put the other on, Blackwall’s tossed the boot against the wall, and pressed her down against the furs again. A jolt sparks through his body at the sight of it.  
  
Lavellan backs away best she can – she pulls her legs up onto the bed and corners herself between the walls. Blackwall kicks away the breeches tangled around his legs and clambers over her, trapping her underneath him. He kisses the top of her head where her hair has become the messiest.  
  
She tries to hold her smalls on, so Blackwall’s forced to seize her arms and pin them over her head. He presses down on her wrists with one rough palm, while with the other he rips her smalls away and savors the rasping sound. Her plain tunic is ripped away too – Lavellan cries out at that, and jabs her knee up into his belly. When that does nothing but make him grunt, she attempts to twist into the furs and shield her breasts from his view.  
  
It doesn’t work. His free hand – she’s still struggling against the other’s grip – traces up the wide plain of her stomach delicately. The gentleness disappears when he reaches her breast. Dragging his thumb from below the globed underside up to her soft nipple, he can’t help but clutch it. She redoubles her efforts for freedom; he can feel the muscles in the leg trapped between his, how they contract as she writhes.  
  
The struggle only makes him harder.  
  
Blackwall secures his grip on her wrists, lines up his cock with her entrance. Then, with a slow thrust, he’s inside her.  
  
He sinks down onto her body. She’s so bloody tight. Even his saliva and her slight arousal haven’t made her pussy wet enough for this to be easy. The friction makes his whole body thrum with a heightened pleasure he’s never reached before.  
  
Moaning deep in his throat, he buries himself into her up to the hilt and stays there. Her walls clamp around him. An acute edge courses through his veins from that aching spot where all his nerves seem to be concentrated.  
  
Lavellan’s arms slacken under his grip. He draws out of her, then plunges his length back in. It’s been so long that he’d forgotten the heaven he could find inside a woman. Lavellan doesn’t respond. She stares up at the ceiling and takes steady breaths against his neck. He twines his fingers into her hair.  
  
Another stroke elicits a shamefully loud noise from Blackwall. The friction seems all-surrounding. Her exhalations dance across his skin to tease him. He builds up a rhythm of a maddeningly slow thrust inwards, a quick withdrawal, and then the whole exquisite process repeats.

Lavellan seems to be keeping her thoughts in order more easily now. “Why are you doing this?” she says into his neck. The vibrations of her speech are enough to drive him wild. “What do you want from me?”  
  
It’s hard to find words through this throbbing haze of indulgence.

He wants her whimpering his name like a prayer as she seeks out her own pleasure against him. He wants, just as much as that, Lavellan sobbing and begging him to stop, kicking him again, perhaps drawing his blood for his crimes. Anything but this feigned tranquility.

"I want to show you what I am."  
  
“I already know what you are. You’re a good man.” Her voice cracks. “You’re my friend! Please. Stop. Let me go. I won’t be angry at you.”  
  
The transparent attempt at calmness angers him. He rears up, supports his weight on his elbows, and sets a faster, brutal pace. He wants to fuck that aloof pretense out of her, and fuck the proof of his monstrosity so deep inside she’ll never forget. So that she’ll never even look at him again without remembering that he isn’t to be trusted. It is simple courtesy to warn someone away from danger.  
  
He loathes her for not wanting him and loathes himself for taking her, but the weight of guilt heavy in his gut doesn’t stop him, and Blackwall loathes himself even more for continuing anyway. She’s becoming looser, though perhaps he is only imagining a growing slickness. His thrusts blur together. Sex’s scent descends over them. Lavellan turns her face from his hot breath. She attempts to shift onto her side, which has the effect of pressing her breast against his touch-starved skin.  
  
It throws him over the edge. Blackwall’s mind bursts into the white static exhilaration of an orgasm. He clutches at Lavellan, cries gutturally into her hair. Rough kisses crush his lips against her forehead. Months of pent-up fantasy spill into her.  
  
When the act is done it feels oddly sordid. Blackwall comes back to himself and extracts his softening cock from her. His seed dribbles out of her reddened entrance and onto the furs. He takes the remains of her smalls from the floor to clean up with. She lets him wipe the cum out of her disarranged folds; he finds spots of blood on the rag, too, and feels queasy. After smearing the seed from himself, too, he tosses away her smalls and puts his own back on. It seems indecent to be naked now that it’s over.  
  
He can’t stop himself admiring Lavellan. Her limbs lie in disarray across the bed; her wrists are red with how long he’d pushed them down. He kisses the marks as if to heal them, or perhaps to seal the marks of his presence into her skin. There are small indents on her breast left by his ragged nails. He kisses those, too. Her gaze has slid down from the ceiling to some indeterminate, far-away place. She isn’t trying to please anyone. It’s the most relaxed he’s ever seen her. He’s proud.  
  
Blackwall goes to fetch his coat, and as he’s turned away, he fears he’ll return and she’ll be tight-sinewed and unyielding again. Or worse, she’ll have slipped away like a dream.  
  
Lavellan remains, and remains bonelessly limp. Blackwall tucks the coat over her, then slips under it beside her. Sleeping on straw might be fine for him, but not for a fragile elf. Her hair tickles his belly. He gathers her into his arms and holds her close. Blackwall kisses her on the forehead, so gently he’s afraid it won’t leave a mark.  
  
In a fantasy, she nestles into his embrace now, tells him that he’s a monster but she's grateful for it. He’s awful and she knows it, and yet she chooses to have him rip her facade open again. With the Herald’s voice she blesses him. She tells him that she forgives him for all he’s had to do. He has had to do such terrible things, even to her. But she forgives him.  
  
Lavellan curls up in his arms and begins to softly cry. Blackwall closes his eyes and basks in her love.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme in 2016.


End file.
